


Patch

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: As in really really mild, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Harold takes good care of his adopted assassins, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Gore, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21838201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: A small missing scene set between B.S.O.D. and SNAFU, Harold patching up the bullet graze on Root's arm.
Relationships: Harold Finch & Root | Samantha Groves
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	Patch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).

> Happy birthday, Sky! Again, wishing you all the best for the next year of your life and all the ones after ♡♡ I hope you'll like this and that there aren't too many typos (sry).
> 
> This can be read as a prequel to [my old exchange fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14894852)

A part of Harold is still half expecting for something else to go wrong at any moment, but their cooling system seems to be coping well enough with the demands of their improvised supercomputer, now that the initial workload of decompressing what’s left of the Machine has abated into merely running an automatic diagnostic of its most critical pieces of core code. The emptied tank of liquid nitrogen is still standing in the midst of it, beside a second, full one the origin of which Harold isn’t entirely sure he wants to question. John has left a few minutes ago to retrieve several others to spare, just in case, even though Root agrees that there should hopefully be no more need for them. But the paranoid survive.

Strange to think, it occurs to him as he continues to observe the organised chaos inside the old subway car, that the fate of humanity relies on the blinking light of dozens of outdated playstations among the colourful mess of cables. With a little stretch of the imagination, it’s not entirely unlike a hospital bed in an ICU, monitoring and life support. He can only hope he won’t break his promise to his dying Machine that he won’t fail her again.

Rationally, he knows that while the danger hasn’t passed, the Machine is stable enough for now that he could leave, if not the subway station then at least the wagon itself. Could make himself a cup of tea or get changed, wash off the lingering smell of smoke that has sunken into his hair and clings to his skin. But it almost feels like tempting fate to step away, as if everything might fall apart as soon as his back his turned. Hope is a delicate, fragile thing.

Root, from what he can tell by her tense posture, must be feeling similarly. She sits at the desk with her back to him, tense, leaning forward slightly as if afraid to miss anything while code runs over the screen before her, too fast for the human eye. Shifting every few minutes, as if trying to find a more comfortable position, then straightening again.

She too must be caught in that strange place between adrenaline and exhaustion. Neither of them have slept in over 36 hours, the rush and desperation of escaping Samaritan’s agents and resuscitating the Machine having kept them on their feet, but with what he assumes, or at least hopes, is the worst behind them, some measure of relief is setting in. While the tension from the uncertainty of their future is enough to keep him awake, he is starting to feel the sharp aches of his body in the familiar and various other, less frequent places, and in this too, he is sure he isn’t the only one.

What finally sets him in motion is the sight of a small patch of blood beginning to soak into the sleeve of Root’s dark blue shirt where it bulges unevenly from the bandage underneath it. Not for the first time he is glad for the foresight of having stored one of the numerous first-aid kits in the subway car.

“Root?”

Though her eyes remain fixed on the screen, she sits up straighter, body angled a bit further towards him, her attention on him now.

“I’d like to take a look at your arm, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Now she does look up with a fond little smile. “I’m fine, Harry. I’m a big girl, patched myself right up.”

Instead of replying, he simply casts a meaningful glance down at the slowly spreading blood stain, raising his eyebrows until her gaze follows his and she frowns in surprise, smile turning almost sheepish.

“I might have been a little rushed at the time. I was with an old client, and surprisingly he didn’t volunteer to lend me a hand with this after I blackmailed him into providing me with a new identity. Right before trying to sell me out to Samaritan.”

It doesn’t take him long to decide that he isn’t overly keen on learning the details at this point. “How discourteous of him. All the more reason to look after you properly now that we do have the time. I’m afraid you and I will be rather busy as soon as the diagnostic finishes.”

Affectionate indulgence is written on her face when she leans back in her chair and rolls up her bloodies sleeve before placing the arm outstretched on the desk for him to access. He puts the open first-aid kit down next to it and takes his seat beside her, grabbing a pair of scissors to cut through the tape at the end, then makes to gently unwrap her bandage.

It probably says something rather questionable about the life he leads, but for the moment he can’t help but feel thankful that he has by now long been forced to overcome his squeamishness. The wound isn’t a particularly severe one, but, even if sluggishly, it’s still bleeding, deep enough to be in need of stitches.

“This may sting.” he informs her unnecessarily, more habit than anything else. A piece of what for them passes as normalcy. Her arm barely twitches as he begins to clean the wound as carefully as he can, hands as diligent and steady with this as they are on a keyboard, and she seems to relax further into the chair as she watches him take care of her injury. He is liberal with the topical anaesthetic and this time, when he sinks the needle in, there isn’t so much as a twitch.

“This is nice.” Root comments quietly, voice barely above a whisper, when roughly two thirds of the wound are held together with neat, even little stitches.

Harold’s eyes flicker to the exposed skin of her arm, to her hands. Her scars aren’t as plentiful as John’s or Shaw’s, but they are still numerous. With her playful demeanour, the way she rarely talks of the time before they met, it’s sometimes all too easy to forget that she has been on the run and surviving on her own since the age of twelve, even with the traces that life has left on her. Too easy to forget that having someone other than herself to see to her injuries is still a rather recent development for her.

With his free hand, he gives hers a brief squeeze, smiling reassuringly even though he doesn’t look up from his self-assigned task. “I suppose it’s… peaceful.”

“Calm before the storm.” A hint of laughter in her voice, hiding lingering worry and exhaustion. He doesn’t comment on it, electing to let out a soft huff of his own.

“I’d rather hope we’ve just weathered the worst of the storm.” He ties off the last of the stitches, cuts off the remaining thread and gives his work a final swipe with antiseptic, then turns to find clean bandages, though the sight of the screen, the diagnostic of the code running along, gives him pause. “You know, I meant what I said. I have no intention of failing her again, I have done so too often already. And I know that I can trust you to remind me not to repeat old mistakes.”

It takes her a while to reply, long enough that he covers the stitches with sterile gauze pads in silence, long enough to secure them with a fist roll of gauze and begin to wind a layer of more sturdy bandage above it. A brief glance reveals that her eyes are averted in a rare display of bashfulness, a small but genuine, pleased smile on her lips.

“I’m not sure you’ll really need the reminding, but I won’t let you down.”

He secures the bandage and smooths over the edges one last time. “I know. And perhaps I ought to say it more often, but I find myself rather glad that you’re here, Root.” And he is. It’s not as though he doesn’t appreciate John’s equally unshakeable faith in him, be it in restoring the Machine or anything else, but to know that Root’s knowledge of the subject matter rivals his own and that she still has such faith in him, it’s more reassuring than he can say, or really, than he even wants to fully admit.

Root catches his hand before he can move to put the first-aid kit back where it belongs.

“Thanks, Harry.” It’s obvious she isn’t only referring to the stitches.

“You’re quite welcome.”

Her thumb winds itself around his hand and starts stroking his palm, and she frowns. It takes Harold a moment to realise that she must have felt the scar she left there all those years ago. Strange to remember her care when she patched him back up in a way not all to dissimilar to how he has just done for her; how much her gentleness, her inexplicable affection for him, so at odds with everything else he’d seen from her, unsettled him. How comforting it is in contrast these days.

“I never did apologise for this, did I?”

He stills her thumb, turns his hand around to properly grip hers, hoping to return that comfort. “There’s no need.” Then he smiles. “We’ve come quite a long way since then, haven’t we?”

Root returns his smile with a bright one of her own, but whatever she might have said in reply is interrupted by a noise from the computer’s speakers, signifying the return of results from the diagnostic. Harold quickly disposes of the old bandages and wrappings from the new ones, snaps the first-aid kit closed and places it on the floor next to the desk for the time being, unwilling to waste any to bring it back.

“I believe this is our cue to get back to work.”

Next to him, Root reaches for the keyboard, the new bandage around her arm glowing white in the light of the monitors. “Nowhere I’d rather be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it? Please leave a comment, comments are the light of my writer life :)


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